


The Way We Were (Was Enough for a Lifetime)

by chicklette



Series: OT3verse [3]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Captain America - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Angst and Feels, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Hand Jobs, M/M, No Sam in this one, POV Bucky Barnes, Period Typical Attitudes, Period-Typical Homophobia, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Stucky - Freeform, Vignette, War Era, World War II, but it still belongs in that 'verse, no really he needs a hug
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-21
Updated: 2017-03-21
Packaged: 2018-10-08 22:18:16
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,854
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10397424
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chicklette/pseuds/chicklette
Summary: Pre-war Bucky and Steve.





	

Steve wakes with a gasp and Bucky grits his teeth.  Bucky’s a light sleeper; years spent worrying over Stevie made him that way, and now he wakes up every time the kid turns over in his sleep.  But the moan Steve just made isn’t a hurt kind of moan, and Bucky’s spent too many nights keeping his breathing soft and slow, while his dick is aching and hard, as Steve jerks off in the bed next to him.  Steve coughs and Bucky hears him turn his head.  Bucky keeps his breathing deep and even, and keeps his damned eyes closed.  He wills Steve to turn over and go back to sleep, _come on kid, go back to sleep._

 

There’s silence in their small, cold room.  Silence and Steve’s sharp breaths, and then a soft rustle of fabric.  Bucky’s stomach tenses, his whole body going rigid.  Another pass of fabric, the silence as Steve holds his breath.

 

Bucky holds his breath too, holds it and hates himself for all the things he’s thinking, for being so hard, so fast.  For wanting.  God, he can’t even look at Steve sometimes for wanting him so much.  And he’s seen the way Steve looks at him, the way his eyes slide over Bucky’s body, mouth falling open sometimes, white teeth sinking into red lips. What he wants to do to those lips. 

 

They can’t – god they _can’t._

 

Doesn’t stop him from wanting to though.  Never has.

 

Steve lets out whimper, soft and so, so loud in the quiet room, and Bucky breaks.

He springs to life before Steve can say anything, before Steve can even move, and he’s got Steve in his hand, stroking his cock, his head on Steve’s shoulder, leaning up to press soft kisses against Steve’s cheek.

 

“I’ve got you,” he whispers.  “Let go, Stevie, I’ve got you.”

 

“Buck--” and Steve’s fingers dig into Bucky’s thigh, pulling him closer, not pushing him away.  “Buck, please,” Steve says, and god, Bucky wants to sob in relief. 

 

“It’s okay,” Bucky whispers, hand speeding up. “Let me do this, it’s okay, it’s okay, I can do this, I’ve got you.”

 

Steve’s gasp is a shotgun in the quiet, and then he whines and then says “Bucky, Bucky, Buck!” and then he’s coming, hot and wet over Bucky’s hand, panting hard, fingers digging into Bucky’s thigh.  Steve turns his head and finds Bucky’s mouth with his, fingers fisting deep into Bucky’s hair, panting into Bucky’s mouth and oh, god, he might actually die from the slick, hot mouth of his best friend on his. His dick grazes Steve’s thigh and he comes, inelegant, pathetic, really, with Steve’s tongue in his mouth, moving hot and wet and gorgeous with his own.

 

Christ, he thought he hated himself before this.

 

_Christ._

 

Pulling off his t-shirt he cleans them both up.  He can see the shine of Steve’s embarrassment in the half-light of the full moon.

 

He turns, folds Steve into the curve of his body, heaving one arm over Steve’s side.

 

“Jesus, it don’t mean nothin’, killer.  Just…go back to sleep.”

 

He closes his eyes and feels Steve relax into him, a slight wiggle as he gets comfortable, then a deep sigh.

 

“Buck?”

 

“C’mon, kid, you need the zz’s.”

 

“I - okay.  ’Night, Buck.”  Sleep pulls Steve down fast, and Bucky presses a kiss to Steve’s skinny shoulder.

 

.

 

The next morning, though, Bucky should have known.  Steve tries to open the conversation a couple of times, but Bucky brushes him off.  He can’t – they can’t _do this_.  Stevie’s got to know that, right?

 

He can see Steve getting sore with him, his evasion.  Should have known better, really.  Kid never could back away from a fight.

 

Bucky escapes the two room apartment with the Murphy bed tucked safely away.  He spends the day walking the cold Brooklyn streets, trying to figure out how he’s going to break his best friend’s heart, when all he really wants to do is dive back under the covers with him, hold him close and pretend the rest of the world just ain’t there at all.  No war, no shitty job working the docks, coming home reeking of dead fish and stale sweat every night.  Not that he begrudges the living he makes for him and Steve.  That kid has trouble holding down jobs – he gets sick, then he gets canned – but Bucky’d always thought he might do something different.  Be a teacher maybe, get to work with kids.  But that war in Europe showed up on their doorstep, and he knows how bad Stevie wants in, and he knows if they ever let him in, that Bucky’ll be right behind him.  Kid’s got the self-preservation of skills of a toddler. And a shitty job on the docks still keeps them in rent money, and Bucky ain’t too proud for a little hard work.

 

By the time he gets back to their apartment, Steve’s really steamed, pacing around their little room, muttering under his breath.

 

“The hell have you been?” Steve asks, his voice getting that reedy quality that means he’s a few words away from throwing the first punch.

 

Bucky sits down at the little card table they use for meals.  There’s a half bowl of soup congealing on the other side of the table, and god, he’s gotta get that kid to eat better.

 

“Stevie,” he says, keeping his voice low and warm.  “Come on.”

 

He watches as Steve sits across from him, his gorgeous little Stevie, his perfect little doll, and watches as he tries to back down from the fight, then sees it rise up in him again.

 

Bucky’s never been good at protecting Steve from himself, but it’s never stopped him from trying.

 

“That all you ate today?” Bucky asks, indicating the soup.  It was cabbage with potato and a little bit of bacon fat, nothing special but there was a war on and not a lot he could about that.

 

“And some bread,” Steve says.  “Becca dropped a loaf by.”

 

Steve nods.  “You ain’t ever gonna get any bigger--”

 

“If I don’t eat more, I know.  I’m trying, Buck.  Not gonna be 4F forever.”

 

 _You will if I can help it,_ Bucky thinks.

 

“Bucky,” Steve starts, and oh, hell, _fine_.

 

“A couple of fellas helpin’ each other out now and then, that don’t mean nothing, Stevie.  It ain’t – it don’t mean they’re fairies or nothing, you know that, right?”

 

Steve watches Bucky for a minute and Bucky knows he isn’t selling the lie, and he hates this.  Hates himself for all of it, but mostly for what he’s about to say, hates the world for making it true, and hates Steve a little too, for making him say it.

 

He tries to steady himself and can’t, so he looks at his hands like the coward he is, picks at his cuticles and speaks.

 

“It’s different for other guys, Stevie.  It’s different for fairies.  World ain’t safe for guys like that.  A guy can end up in jail, or worse.”  He makes himself meet Steve’s eyes.  “Me and you, helping each other out, that ain’t nothin’, and it don’t make us like them.  It ain’t like one of us is stickin’ it into the other, we ain’t like that.  Things’re just tough right now.  That’s all.  Once this damn war is done, we’re gonna find ourselves a couple of swell girls to marry, and we’re gonna forget all about what happened during the war.  Right, Stevie?”

 

The look that crosses Steve’s face is like a knife to Bucky’s throat.  It calls him a liar and a coward and there’s naked hunger that makes Bucky’s blood rush.  And then defeat.  Steve lowers his eyes, those pretty blues, and Bucky feels like he’s just sold his damn soul.

 

“Yeah, Buck.  Sure.  You want me to heat up the soup?”

 

Bucky forces the half-grin to his face.  “Sure, pal.  Thanks.”

 

They never talk about it again.  They never acknowledge the way they rush to bed some nights, eager to bare their secrets to the shadows, get their hands on each other after a day spent apart.  After that first time, Bucky draws the line at kissing.  “Kissing’s for dames,” he whispers to Steve, then buries his teeth in Steve’s shoulder, to give his mouth something to do.  They live on furtive hand jobs, gasping one another’s names, panting into each other’s mouths (but not kissing, not that, Bucky couldn’t _stand_ that), and falling asleep in a mess of wiry limbs and damp skin and desire that never seems to be sated.  

 

There’s a kind of peace, nonetheless. The peace of those moments before sleep, when he could hold Steve, and Steve allowed himself to be held, and they could pretend that the world outside, the war and the right and the wrong of their lives, that none of that existed.  Bucky could press soft kisses into Steve’s hair, or shoulder when he thinks Stevie’s asleep.  Could call him doll, or baby, watch those blues light up at the easy affection.  Could feel Steve’s skinny body pressed up against his, and think words like _mine_ and _forever._   _Love._

 

It lasts thirteen weeks.

 

It lasts until one of Bucky’s friends calls Steve a queer (what’re you hanging out with that queer for, anyway?) and Bucky loses it.  The guy gets a black eye and a loose tooth for his trouble.  Maybe next time he’d keep his lousy mouth shut.

 

Even if he did, though, it wouldn’t matter.  Bucky still goes on plenty of dates, kisses plenty of dames and no one’s the wiser.  Steve though, he didn’t have those smarts or those looks.  Dames aren’t interested and it was clear from the way he doesn’t look at them that he ain’t interested either.

 

And what kind of a friend was Bucky being, really?  Here he keeps telling himself that he’s looking out for the guy, but he’s not, not really.  He wasn’t looking out for his best friend, his partner in crime _(his world)_ , now was he?

 

The war was in full swing and like it or not, Steve was 4F and no matter how he lied or tried to sign up, wasn’t any recruiter gonna sign off on Steven Grant Rogers going to war.  They’d be happy to sign up Bucky though.  They gave him lingering looks each time he went in with Steve.  So when Bucky stops in and the guy looks him up and down, Bucky says, “I’m here to serve.” This time the recruiter is more than happy to process Bucky’s paperwork.  He’d report to boot in less than a week.

 

He doesn’t tell Steve until the night before.  They go to the diner on Ash (my treat, Stevie) and have thick slices of cherry pie and strong, dark cups of coffee.  They see a movie at the Bijou and if Bucky’s hand strays to the low of Steve’s back once or twice, it’s not so anyone would notice.

 

When they get home, he walks Steve to the bed.  He closes the shutters but doesn’t dim the lights and he takes Steve’s clothes off, piece by piece.  He coos and Steve’s ear and kisses down his neck.  Call him every pet name in the book and maybe makes a few of them up, because this is it, just tonight, and he has to.  _Has_ to. 

 

He puts his mouth on the knob of Steve’s shoulders.  He drinks in Steve’s skin, his perfect, frail doll, drinks in Steve’s words as he coaxes them along.  Words like ‘oh god,’ and ‘please’ and ‘Bucky, I need,’ words that damn Bucky as much as they thrill him.  He holds on as Steve shakes in his arms, until he comes apart and then Bucky kisses him, long and sweet and hot, memorizing the feel of him, the taste, cherry pie and coffee and just Steve, just him.

 

Steve says things like “I want you,” and “Please, Buck,” and “inside,” things that make Bucky’s brain ache, his body keen with need, even though he knows he can’t, not even now.  He can’t cross that line with Steve, make both of them into something they’ll regret someday.  He needs to be able to pretend, for both of them, that this was an aberration. And Stevie’s too good, he’d either try to stand by Bucky no matter what, or end up spilling his guts to someone further down the line, end up scaring off whichever dame is smart enough to open her fool eyes and see Stevie.  Bucky needs this to be just something they did when they were punk kids, something they did from loneliness or friendship or anything other than what’s real. 

 

But he wants to, god, he wants to be inside Stevie, wants Stevie inside of him, owning him, taking from him, taking everything and giving it all back.  God, he _wants._  

 

The kissing will be enough.  

 

They kiss until Steve turns in his arms, until they lay side by side, until he’s under Steve, until Steve presses down, rolling his hips and panting again in Bucky’s mouth.

 

Bucky reaches out, traps their cocks together, all that sweet, damp skin, holds tight as Steve moves against him, on top of him, pushing his face into the crook of Bucky’s neck, holds tight until he’s the one shaking, until they both are, crying out and saying things that neither would ever forget.

 

They hold each other in the quiet, the outside din of wartime Brooklyn floating up to their window like a song.  Steve turns to Bucky, earnest, dark blue eyes and pale, smooth skin. Bucky sees it all, sees Steve’s heart laid bare, and knows it’s for him, knows then it always has been.  His heart aches with it, with wanting it and having it and knowing it’s just this, just now, just tonight.  That’s all he’s going to get of forever and it’s going to have to be enough. 

 

“Dunno if I’m ever gonna see you again, Buck.”

 

“Shush,” Bucky says, because they really can’t start talking like this.  He can’t, can’t _take_ it.

 

“No, Buck, come on.”  Steve pushes up until Bucky’s on his back and Steve’s looking down at him, their bodies still pressed together.  They’d turned out the lights an hour ago, and Bucky feels his heart stutter at the shade of Stevie’s eyes in the moonlight.  “We ain’t been apart since the second grade, Buck.  You been my best friend, the best fella I know.  Ain’t no one ever gonna be like that for me again, you gotta know that.  Before you go, you gotta know –”

 

“Shh, Stevie.”

 

“Bucky, I–”

 

Bucky surges up, catching Steve’s mouth with his.  He’ll swallow those words, things Stevie might regret one day saying, even as Bucky knows he’ll regret never hearing them.  He lets his mouth open, sucks in Stevie’s bottom lip and then lets himself into Stevie’s mouth, his tongue licking, stroking, promising.  He can’t say those words, he can’t let Stevie say them either.  Not if either of them is getting out of this alive.  Not whole, Bucky knows now he’s not ever gonna be whole again, but alive.  That’s something.  That’s the best he can do for them now. 

 

“I know, doll.  I know baby,” Bucky mutters against Steve’s mouth.  “Me, too.”

 

Bucky knows he’s probably not coming back from the war.  He knows he’s probably not seeing this little apartment again, and he knows this is the last time he’s ever holding Stevie in his arms like this.  He kisses Steve fierce, bruising and biting, fingers digging in tight, marking.  Steve catches on and he’s a hellcat – all hot mouth and sharp nails in Bucky’s skin, desperation bleeding through every move.  They go like that all night long: a kicked up fire that flares hot and bright, before dying down to embers, only to flare up again. 

 

The morning light is dim and soft, casting a bluish tint to Stevie’s fair skin when Bucky slides out of his embrace.  He counts the freckles across the bridge of Steve’s nose, memorizes the arc of his lashes, how they lay against his cheek, before pressing a kiss to his temple. 

 

Steve’s sleepy eyes are dark blue and confused and then hurting a little before Steve gets his bravado into place and becomes Bucky’s Steve one last time.

 

“See ya, punk,” Bucky says.

 

Steve’s smile wavers before it lights up, full force.  “See ya, jerk.”

 

A smile lights the corner of Bucky’s mouth, and it stays put all the way to the train station. 

 

In the coming months, years, when he’s tired or exhausted, hungry or sick, cold or feeling like he’d give his last pair of clean, dry socks in exchange for ten minutes in a hot shower, that smile finds him, tucks itself into that corner of his mouth, and Bucky feels a moment of thanks that he’d ever known Steve Rogers, even if he’d never been able to call him his. When he knows nothing else, he remembers that, and thinks, _not bad for some jerk from Brooklyn.  Not bad at all._

 

**Author's Note:**

> At some point in the OT3 verse, Steve explains to Sam that he and Bucky never had penetrative sex. I wrote this as a flashbackish thing, but pretty sure I can't use it now, which sucks because this Bucky kind of makes my heart bleed some. Sam's not here, but these guys are who Sam ends up with, so it belongs in this 'verse. I reserve the right to swipe this if I need it for the actual story, but I probably wont because I'm pretty sure the whole thing will be Sam-pov. 
> 
> Also, I don't post wips anymore, and the bigger fic isn't done yet, which is why it's not posted. 
> 
> And I still don't know how to work AO3's formatting stuff. Sorry for all the extra spaces. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for reading. You've no idea how much I appreciate your comments and kudos. Thank you. <3


End file.
